CHAPTER TWO

The Weary Road

The 21st March 1918 was by far the worst day for the British Army as regards prisoners of war. In the space of a few hours, some 21,000 British soldiers were captured, far more than on any other comparable day in the war, and by the end of the initial battle on 5th April a further 54,000 had been taken. Such were the numbers of POWs that many survivors were simply stripped of their weapons and webbing and shown the direction which they were expected to follow. They were then abandoned to join the crowds streaming across the German front and second lines, as the enemy pressed on with their overwhelming attacks. This day was exceptional. As a rule, prisoners were marched back from the line under the escort of one, perhaps two guards, the urgency of the situation at the front dictating how many men could be spared to take back or collect -prisoners. Those prisoners fit to walk often made temporary stretchers from ground sheets or duckboards to carry wounded comrades and enemy. As they walked back, weary and deflated, they would often pass enemy soldiers marching towards the line, when they were as likely to receive a cigarette as a clip round the head. Some would be sworn at, others stared at, many just ignored as they trudged across a field or, more often, down the road towards a holding pen where prisoners would be congregated before being sorted out and moved on.

These men were not necessarily safe. Friendly fire, as it is now known, caused innumerable deaths as British gunners sought out enemy transport or opposing gun batteries in the back areas. Prisoners frequently recall shells falling in fields to their left or right, men instinctively ducking. Similarly, machine gun bullets fired over long distances took toll. At least one prisoner I spoke to recalled a man dropping dead next to him while they were marching away. He had been shot in the back, by which side was unclear, but certainly not by anyone in the immediate vicinity.

The pens in which the prisoners were eventually congregated could be several miles behind the lines, and stops were made along the way, men collapsing to sleep where they fell, through exhaustion and nervous fatigue. Guards, free from control, could be brutal at times and there are depositions from former POWs claiming that prisoners incapable of keeping up were manhandled or even killed. Certainly, prisoners interviewed for this book told how the German Uhlans were frequently provocative and violent, lances and horses being used to jostle the prisoners as they walked.

Once they reached a pen or wire cage, few would stay more than a day or two, as no facilities were supplied other than perhaps a trench for a midden. Most slept on the ground to await further instructions, during which time irregular and usually very poor quality food was sent into the cage. Even though trench warfare ensured that the opposing sides were almost always in close proximity, surprisingly few soldiers saw the enemy up close, even in action. In such circumstances, the prisoners’ cage frequently attracted German soldiers who wandered up to have a closer look at the enemy, dishevelled and hungry and not half as fearsome as they had been led to believe. Often bartering took place, in which soldiers who had managed to hold on to rings or watches traded all their worldly goods for a chunk of bread or a piece of sausage.

If they were not held in cages, men were often taken to old factories, even churches, to spend a night or two where, in an ideal world, they would be given cards to fill out which gave the basic details that Private X of Y Battalion had been captured. These would be forwarded to Britain via the Red Cross, letting families know of their loved ones’ capture. This information would be passed on to the military authorities who would post men as prisoners and later arrange for food parcels to be sent. Meanwhile, wounded men would be separated and taken to a first aid post or a clearing station for basic medical treatment.

Until 1918, most prisoners were sent to Germany to the hundreds of camps and work Kommandos situated right across the country. The trip entailed walking to the nearest major railhead where they would be placed in locked cattle trucks, perhaps as many as fifty at a time. Conditions were usually appalling, packed as they were like sardines, with no toilet, little food, and perhaps no rest stops between France and the interior of Germany. Early on in the war, some of the first prisoners were exhibited to the civilian population, trains pulling in to major junctions such as Cologne, where the doors were opened and the human cargo forced to endure insults and abuse. However, as prisoner of war trains became more frequent, most trains were allowed to pass uninterrupted, save for the odd stone thrown at the passing wagons.

ERNIE STEVENS

Attacked and then surrounded, Ernie had little option but to follow his officer’s instructions and signal their willingness to surrender. Having been in France only a matter of days, Ernie felt humiliated.

There was no earthly chance of us getting away, the Germans were in such numbers, so I waved my dirty handkerchief and in due course a German appeared on the level ground above us, looking down and ordering us out of the trench one by one. The first thing we had to do was to throw off our equipment which lay strewn all over the place, and then I noticed Sam Simpkins, a mate of mine, lying on the ground moaning, obviously hurt very badly. I asked a German for permission to go and have a look at him and he nodded. I ran over and it was then that I saw that Sam had been hit in the left arm. His elbow had been shot away and his forearm was only hanging on to his upper arm by a piece of flesh no thicker than a finger. I knew nothing about first aid but Sam was in a very bad way, blood was pouring out and I knew he would be dead within ten minutes. I had to stop the bleeding somehow, so I asked permission to pick up a knife and the German nodded quite vigorously, like hurry up and do it. He seemed to give a little smile as much as to say, ‘Good, I’m glad someone’s going to do something’ and very quietly and slowly, I hope without harming Sam, I cut his sleeve off almost to his shoulder. Sam was in a semi-conscious state as I made two strips out of the sleeve, which I used as tourniquets above his elbow. I stopped the bleeding but I couldn’t do anything about his forearm, so it was just a case of gently getting his arm and laying it across his breast.

There were eight of us altogether in that trench. I knew just behind there was a duckboard, very mucky, very wet and very heavy. Our officer was taken away, I didn’t see him again, so being an NCO I ordered these chaps to bring the duckboard over, three on one side, three on the other and gently lift Sam onto it. We waited around for some time before moving off, taking it in turns to carry the duckboard on our shoulders. I can assure you it was heavy going. We went from our second line up to the first line, over no man’s land, over the German first and second lines, and -eventually onto a road and towards a German first aid tent where we put Sam down.

As we did this, a German medical officer came out. He looked at Sam, returned to the tent and immediately came back with a scalpel and he just cut Sam’s forearm off and threw it on a heap of other arms and legs and what have you, some in German uniform, some in khaki, they were easy to distinguish. The heap was about knee high and wide, perhaps 50 in all, and, well, to be frank, the first thing you want to do is be sick. It’s an awful sight to see such a pile of limbs. Unfortunately that is what you see in war.

Another ten or fifteen British soldiers had congregated at the First Aid tent and with them we were marched off and put into a wire cage for three days’ during which time they gave us only half-a-dozen emergency rations like dog biscuits to eat, and nothing to drink. It’s beyond my comprehension – and they had everything to be gloating about – but it was not a fair way of dealing with unfortunate prisoners who couldn’t do anything about it, and that’s what you are, you’re a prisoner of war.

GEORGE GADSBY

Our captors treated us fairly well. One of them struck me across the back with a stick saying, ‘Ah we la victorie’. I expected more, as we had inflicted heavy casualties, but I did not suffer anything else in going to the enemy’s rear. When we reached Léchelle, we formed into small groups and were told to carry the wounded. They had no stretchers and we had to carry both the Germans and our own patients in a waterproof sheet tied to a pole. We deposited them at a hospital and then set out on the march.

We had not been going long when we realised what a terrible state Germany was in. The roads were blocked with transport, two and three motor cars were lashed together and pulled by the power of the front one, and vehicles (not much better than orange boxes on wheels) were packed so heavily that they creaked under the weight. Although we realised what privations confronted us, we could not but raise a smile as we marched along. The Germans’ transport reminded us of a travelling circus. Behind each cart generally followed a cow, whilst on the top of the loads could be seen a box of rabbits or fowls. A motor car came dashing along the road, evidently containing German Staff Officers. They were wearing their high coloured hats and resembled proud peacocks rather than soldiers.

What a pandemonium! Now and then a troop of dusky cavalry mounted on bony ponies passed us on the way, whilst battalions of infantry led by martial music (which did not sound much better than the noise made by a youngster kicking a tin along the road) advanced to the front with stooping heads looking particularly fed up and worn out.

At last the traffic began to subside and we continued marching in a mechanical sort of way until we had covered about 19 miles, when we halted for the night and sought our abode in a barbed wire field. Hungry and thirsty, we were left to sleep as best we could.

At 3am they brought two buckets of water for 300 men and after a struggle I got a little drink. At 7am a patrol of old and evil-eyed Prussians mounted on horseback arrived to escort us to our destination. It was a terrible march across the old battlefields. One road we passed along was strewn with dead horses from the top to the bottom and as we were then a considerable way beyond our own original front line, it can be surmised that they had been left lying there since our advance on Cambrai last November. This was not, however, the worst sight we witnessed on this sickening journey. Two or three British soldiers lay at the roadside. One was partly covered by a blanket whilst the others appeared to have no covering. Their boots and socks had been removed. It was a ghastly disgrace to a country professing to be civilised; no excuse could be given for leaving them so long, as I think no shell had fallen anywhere near since last November.

JACK ROGERS

We had all just surrendered at the last minute, but you know we’d been holding out right up until half past eleven and this attack had started early in the morning. How did you know what to do? You didn’t know what to do. You don’t stop to think how am I going to become a prisoner of war, you just throw your hands up and hope this fellow won’t do what it looks as though he’s going to do.

What were my feelings? Absolute relief. With a German rushing towards me with a fixed bayonet – he’d got no reason to like me in any way – I thought this was the finish, it’s the only thing you can think of. So to put his gun down and ask for a cigarette, I just couldn’t believe it, extraordinary relief. The last thing in the world we thought of being was a prisoner of war. We had never anticipated such a thing. Of course then you start thinking of what is going to happen to you now, what’s it going to be like to be a -prisoner of war. Unquestionably there’s a fear for the future, you often heard about the way prisoners of war were treated or maltreated, being sent down coalmines and that sort of thing.

Any equipment had to be taken off and left with our kit bags and sandbags on the trench floor, while we climbed out on top of the parapet. Frank was feeling pretty shaky and couldn’t walk very well, so he put his arms round our necks and we dragged him away up a slope. There was quite a lot of walking then, you could see prisoners in all directions going back. The three of us hadn’t got very far when a young German officer came up to us – a very smart looking fellow, I can see him as plain as if it were now – and said in English better than I could speak, ‘Where are you from?’ pointing at me. I didn’t know what to say, but said ‘London’. ‘Oh, London,’ he said, ‘So am I. I was at Birkbeck College but they brought me home, and now I’m in this lot. Anyway, you’re lucky, the war’s over for you, get on your way.’ Off he went and off we went, to walk back as prisoners of war: my 24th birthday.

We were on our own and we walked about not knowing quite where to go. Dishevelled-looking prisoners were coming in from all directions and someone urged us towards a sunken road where there were broken vehicles and dead horses everywhere. We just followed everyone else until we finally reached a great big field and there we stopped all night, nothing to eat, nothing to drink. In the morning, the Germans brought this big dixie on a sort of trolley. They gave us a tin each of tea-like liquid from this dixie and one slice of brown bread. From then onwards we began to be ushered into groups. I lost all my pals, Charlie and Frank – I don’t know what became of them – before we were taken here, there and everywhere, marching along behind anyone until we got to what appeared to be a goods station. Here we had to await a long line of cattle trucks, forty men to a truck. Some steps were brought for us to walk up into the truck and they packed us in as fast as they could, all blacked out, with just a little square ventilator, like grating, right up in the corner to give us air. We travelled in this truck for two days, still with no water or food, and the only place we could use as a toilet was one corner of the wagon chosen amongst ourselves for us all to use. The men had sense enough to go there, but there was no drainage, the urine just ran out at the bottom of the truck. The smell was awful and it was as much as I could do to hold a handkerchief against my nose for a while. You were standing up, you’d have to lean up against the wall of the truck. Those in the middle got no support at all except by leaning against one another until they’d slide down, and then they’d get up again and slide down once more. I didn’t know anyone, and half the time I was pushing up against someone to keep my balance. It’s practically dark most of the time, you can’t see where you are or where you’re going, you can only hear the reverberation of the music of the wheels on the lines as they’re going along, rackety bang. Well, as a matter of fact I think you wouldn’t be sorry if you died. If that isn’t enough to drive anybody mad, I don’t know what is.

PERCY WILLIAMS

I had to remove all my equipment and take off my gas mask and steel helmet. I can remember the lingering smell of gas in the air which affected my breathing, then, after about quarter of an hour, a couple of prisoners came along with a ground sheet and pole and carried me a little way before they got me on my feet. My leg was very painful and bleeding but I was able to hobble along back to the German lines. We were not out of danger, as one of our own shells burst only fifty yards away at one point. I could hear it whizzing and saw the explosion, but thankfully nobody was hit; it made me think that our own bombardment was nothing to deter the Germans. When we stopped, a German asked us if we were American or English, then he said, ‘Don’t worry, we are not going to kill you, but if you show any resist-ance or try and run away, you’ll be shot.’ And that put our minds at rest. I was taken to a little dressing station about half a mile behind their lines where they put a bandage on my leg. We were all dazed, sort of shellshocked, the drum in my ear had been affected and I had difficulty hearing anything. It took a while to collect myself. I felt awful because we had been running away, I felt like a coward but there was no alternative, we were just on our own. For a couple of days we slept out in the open. Then they took us to a village called Abbé Fontaine, not far from Laon, and put some barbed wire around us, and eventually an electric light was rigged up to see that we did not try and escape at night. A funny thing happened there. Within a couple of days of our capture the Germans came to see us and asked if there were any Irishmen amongst us, or anyone with Irish connections. A corporal said that he was Irish, and a couple of others spoke up as well and they were taken from us to another camp. We never saw them again. We were puzzled at the time, but later I learnt that the Germans segregated some Irishmen who were keen to stir up trouble in Ireland.

The weather was hot and the trenches that we dug to use as latrines had to be filled in after only a day or two because of the stink and the thousands of flies. We had no such thing as toilet paper either, not even newspaper, so we used dock leaves to clean our behinds. After a few weeks my leg was getting better, so I was put to work carrying water in billycans and digging more latrines. Each morning we simply had a bit of black bread and then a few potatoes with their jackets on – well, fair enough – only glad to have them, but we were always hungry and always filthy dirty. One day in seven we were given off, when we were able to take our shirts and pants off to kill the lice in our clothes, but we stayed in our khaki for months, and not until I was in a camp at Bremerhaven were we given clothes.

FRANK DEANE

The Germans cut the webbing of our equipment, they didn’t bother to search us or interfere with us at all. Other prisoners told me later that they had been stripped of all their valuables, but I wasn’t and I did have one valuable, a watch. My father gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday and I carried it with me in a little strap around my waist, through the war and ever since. We were then marched off back across our trenches and onwards, behind the German lines. That night we spent out in the open, then marched further back. I became quite cheerful because they seemed to have such a ramshackle lot of transport, an old harvest cart being pulled by a donkey, a mule and a horse. I didn’t see any motor transport, so I thought, well, if that’s the sort of equipment they’ve got, they won’t last long; I felt quite optimistic.

I did stay out one night and it was a lovely summer’s day, as I remember, so it was quite nice and warm as we slept. The next day we went in a train, in fourth class carriages as they called them in those days – just wooden benches – into Germany. I think it took two or three days to get to Kassel. My bullet wound was a lucky shot as it happened, because it meant I went straight into hospital where I stayed for about two months as it took a long time to heal.

NORMAN COWAN

After the cavalry charge had failed, Norman had no option but to surrender to the Germans. With a serious wound in his leg, the need to seek medical treatment was now imperative.

I tried to stand up but my left leg gave way. One of the Germans scrambled down and, with Artie supporting me on one side and the German on the other, we moved back in the direction of a field dressing station where we were left lying on the ground. I was told that I was now a prisoner of war. At some point while I was there, two officers came along, one was a colonel of the artillery and the other a colonel in a machine gun unit. Apparently they were in some sort of dispute as to who had been doing the most damage when we attacked, and through an interpreter I was asked if I had received my wound from cross fire, but I passed out.

Soon after, four soldiers with a wooden door and an army blanket thrown over it came and lifted me up and took me to a casualty station. I was put onto a metal table and there I lay until I took my turn to be operated on. I was dead scared, terrified, and I became more terrified as I lay on this table while men were operated on around me. An officer came along, but with so much congealed blood he had difficulty examining me. However, in good English he told me that I had a nasty upper thigh wound and the bone had been chipped. ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘are you frightened?’ I said, ‘I’m terrified.’ He said, ‘Well, don’t worry, I’ve spent two years before the war at Guy’s Hospital in London. I’m going to send you to sleep and when you wake up you’ll find a bit of tissue paper, hold on to it.’ He then put a mask over my face.

The next thing I knew was that I was lying in a bunk and very feverish. I opened the tissue paper and there was a bullet in my hand. There were a number of other wounded there, many in pain. Above me was a young German soldier, in great distress and he said, ‘Tommy, Tommy, take this, take this.’ I shook my head in refusal at first but from the top bunk he handed over a little purse. I managed to open it and found some French coins. He died the next morning from the effects of gas and wounds, two orderlies coming in to carry his body away.

The stretcher cases were now sent in primitive railway carriages to a warehouse that had been refitted as a large casualty hospital at a place called Le Cateau. It was a weary trip. British soldiers were coming in wounded all the time and I remember one Highlander, badly wounded, saying, ‘It’s all right lads, they’re beaten, they’re moving back.’ I was given a bed with a pulley and weight arrangement to support my left leg. The roof of the hospital appeared to be mostly glass and at night, when the sky was clear, I was able to gaze through and see our fighter planes coming in over the hospital.

The ward was run by a sister of tremendous size who ruled it with a rod of iron but was greatly respected by everyone. One clear night when I lay awake in my bed, I heard a plaintive voice crying out, ‘Will no one help me? I cannot see anything at all.’ As I listened, the voice seemed familiar to me and came from the third row of beds immediately behind me. The request for help went on and on and was disturbing, so I decided to try and locate the chap. To do this, I had to disengage my leg from the pulley arrangement. This I did with much difficulty and in spite of protests from German soldiers on either side of me, warning that the big nurse would be very angry, I struggled up and by clutching the bed rails I managed to find this soldier. He turned out to be one of my Hussar companions sitting up in bed with his eyes heavily bandaged and all covered with corrugated paper bandages. He turned out to be Billy Watson from Gilsland, one of our own North-umberland Hussars. He greeted me with great emotion and excitement and told me his story. A machine gun bullet had struck the side of his head and destroyed his sight. The German surgeons had extracted the bullet and were now awaiting tests to see if Billy’s sight would recover. We continued to swap our experiences and ignored the frantic waving of hands from the wounded Germans and the fact that the sister in charge had found my bed empty and was about to find me. She smacked me on the right bottom, lifted me up, muttering all the time, and carried me back to my bed and my pulley.

Shortly after, we saw through the glass roof of the hospital our fighter planes and they rained down pamphlets which apparently told of the imminent battle for this area and that time would be given for the evacuation of the hospital. We were to become the front line. This proved to be the case, as shortly afterwards our fighter planes and bombers flew overhead and the hospital was ordered to be cleared. So we were all taken to the railway and were packed into various carriages and horse trucks to begin what proved to be a very long and difficult journey into central Germany.

The wounded were lying about and there were eight cattle trucks to take us, converted to carry stretchers. There was no medical officer on the train that I knew of, just Red Cross men who moved about and gave us drinks. At one point the train stopped and we were told that those who could move could get off the train and go into a hut where there would be plates of sauerkraut for us to eat. I couldn’t move but some of them got out but couldn’t eat the food, so they boarded the train and on we went. The train went very slowly and although there were tin pails for toilets on the train many men were able to step off the train as it was moving and did their business outside. Next to my bunk was the blinded Billy Watson.

WALTER HUMPHRYS

We were put in a field in a wire cage with buckets of water where we spent the night. In the morning, Uhlans marched us to Caudry where we were sorted out into Divisions. Here, two Germans lined us up and as we passed them, one took our helmet off and the other put a civilian hat on us. They had evidently got these from civilian places they’d taken over, all sorts of hats, panamas, straw hats and lord knows what. Then as they lined us up again, a German came along and told us to turn all our pockets out and put the things into a sack. Afterwards we were stripped, and told to stand in front of a German officer, while a private and a sergeant pointed out all our identity marks, scars, blemishes and such like so that we’d be recognised again if we tried to escape. A dinner of a kind of horse beans was given to us and we slept in barracks before going on the next day by train to Le Quesnoy, where we spent another couple of days in open fields, being supplied with food which, despite hunger, many could not eat.

After two or three days, we found our way back to Bellicourt at about 3am on the 30th, that was where the canal comes out between St Quentin and Cambrai, into the Hindenburg line there. For the next three or four weeks we slept in a barn with little or no roof, herded together like cattle and in a very dirty state as there were no facilities for washing or cleaning.

BILL EASTON

After being over-run by waves of German soldiers, Bill had only to wait quietly until mopping up parties returned to take him prisoner. Joining the rest of the POWs, he began to walk back through the German lines.

We were formed up when all of a sudden a young, scruffy-looking fellow caught me such a bang in the back with his rifle butt, I nearly fell down. I swore at him. These Germans, they never spoke to you, if they wanted anything it was the rifle butt, and my goodness that hurt you. He said to me, ‘Cavalry’. I said, ‘No’. Bang! He had two or three goes at me before I was hauled away in front of an officer. This officer was about the same age and he began yelling at me, banging on the wall, stamping, shouting out ‘Cavalry, Cavalry’ and I said, ‘No!’ And this little devil, he gave me another jab. I could hardly stand. Then the officer said, ‘Artillery.’ Again I said, ‘No,’ but I knew what he was getting at. I had come from the 25th Division and its divisional sign was a red horseshoe. It was a sign I wore on the rear of my tunic, whereas all the men from the Norfolks had yellow oblong and square patches sewn on their backs. I told him I was in the RAMC, when there was a calm voice behind me, honestly it was like a comedy, and somebody said, ‘You are in trouble. He doesn’t like you, old chap.’ I said, ‘I don’t like him a lot either,’ and this voice said, ‘He can’t speak English, what’s the problem?’ The voice then spoke German to the officer, I don’t know what he said. I looked round and saw a high-ranking officer like you see in a caricature, he was dressed up to the nines, he’d a monocle, a stick and a cigar. I said, ‘He thinks I’m cavalry.’ ‘I know you’re not cavalry, you’re 25th Division. What are you doing down here? You are about the only one of your lot. I’ve been all the way down this front these last two or three days, and I haven’t seen any from your Division. Where are they now?’ I told him I didn’t know. ‘I was sent here and I don’t know why.’ ‘Oh well, it’s quiet out there now,’ he said, and I replied, ‘It wants to be!’

This other officer was still shouting but I suppose he must have been told to shut up because he went silent all of a sudden. A minute or two later, this caricature spoke again. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll get my man up here and I’ll show this officer a chart.’ A whistle was blown and a man rushed in and saluted before disappearing, only to return with a metal tube. This high-ranking officer took the end off the tube and produced a linen chart on which was printed every divisional sign of the British army. ‘Here you are,’ he said, and there was mine as large as life. I looked at it and agreed. ‘Now his lordship will kick up a row. He’s going to be very annoyed, and he’s going to take it out on you,’ this German told me. I thought to myself, ‘Yes, he’ll bring a rifle and give me the butt two or three times.’ I wasn’t looking forward to it, so he said, ‘Come here a minute.’ He spoke to the other officer and then told me in English, ‘I can’t order him to let you go, but while I show him this chart, you had better slide off, now you have the chance.’ So I left the dugout and dropped-in with the hundreds of other prisoners who were passing by and that was the last I saw of him.

We marched from four that afternoon until late evening and it rained like the devil. It was cold, dark, and as we walked along, there were hundreds of us, I suppose, and if one man fell down you had to leave him, they wouldn’t let you pick him up. Eventually we were taken to a field, where some workers came and put barbed wire around us, and as we would stop there until next day, we should lie down. The ground was as wet as anything; we were drowned rats, cold, but they told us anyone who got up would be shot.